


Technical Perspective: A civilised discourse in interior design

by Pennyplainknits



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: AU, Community: mcshep_match, M/M, Team War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-08-21
Updated: 2009-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-06 00:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pennyplainknits/pseuds/Pennyplainknits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Interior Designers AU, based very loosely on the Doris Day movie <em> Pillow Talk</em>. John Sheppard is a reclusive new designer, who invents an alter ego in order to get close to sarcastic but genius designer Rodney McKay, of Athos Partners.  But what is truth, and what is a lie?  And what will Rodney do when he finds out?<br/>,<br/>Beta by nicolasechs.  Written for Team War in the 2009 McShep Match, for the prompt 'Creature Comforts'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Technical Perspective: A civilised discourse in interior design

**Author's Note:**

> Stargate:Atlantis created by MGM. This is a work of transformative fiction and is written for pleasure, not profit

**The New Dark Ages?**

_Forget Shaker pastels and urban minimalism, this season's hottest interiors are rich, dark and deep. Pair plum with bronze accents, take a chance on pure midnight blue, or, if you're brave enough, go all out for black wall coverings- but just on one wall! New designer John Sheppard has spearheaded New York's journey to the Dark Side- _

"Have you read this?" Rodney asked as he stalked over to his desk.

"Have I read what?" Teyla asked.

"This!" Rodney slammed the magazine down on top of a swatch of batik cloth. "This, this _travesty_-"

"It is only a magazine Rodney," Teyla said.

"But listen-" Rodney read aloud " '_famously reclusive, Sheppard burst onto the scene three months ago as the designer behind the refit of bad boy restaurateur Ronon Dex's flagship restaurant, Sateda. The man of mystery deals with the public mostly through his assistant, preferring his designs to speak for themselves. Sheppard's daringly dark interiors provide welcome respite from Athos Partners' bland neutrals._' Bland? Bland! Just because I got over the need to use every crayon in the box in kindergarten doesn't mean my interiors are _bland_!"

"Rodney," Teyla laid her hand gently on his arm, and he took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. "It is only a magazine, you don't normally take such things to heart. When _Wallpaper_ called my designs for the Woolsey residence 'a hideous sub-tribal monstrosity' I didn't let it bother me."

Teyla's mouth was tight, and Rodney knew she was lying. Those designs had been some of Teyla's best work, and she had every right to be upset.

"It's just, the whole 'mysterious genius' angle," he said, hanging his coat on the hooks by the door and switching his computer on. "I'm the only eccentric genius in this town."

"People have different tastes," Teyla reminded him, selecting a strip of taupe silk and pinning it to her design board. "Sheppard is new, and we are an established name. People are drawn to novelty."

"And while they are being _drawn to novelty_, we are losing clients," Rodney complained.

"Which is why I insist you go to the gallery launch with me," Teyla said triumphantly.

Rodney groaned; he'd walked right into that one.

"Teyla, no. You know I'm no good at that kind of thing."

Teyla swiveled round in her ergonomic chair and glared at him.

"The launch will be full of people with an interest in interior design and the money to pursue it. And as members of the Consortium we are invited to," she paused, and then, grinning, said the fatal word, "network."

"You can do that just as well without me." Rodney said. He clicked on his email; Amelia had put in a meeting with potential clients at 11:00.

"Athos _Partners_," Teyla pointed out. "That means both of us. And," she continued, looking concerned "It will do you good to go. You need to be more social, Rodney."

"Why?" Rodney said. It was an old argument. "I have a nice apartment. I have friends, you and Zelenka, Jeannie. Daniel, when he's not digging up old bones. I date."

"You do not. Daniel was 6 months ago." Teyla said sternly. "Or if you do date, nothing comes of it. I just wish you to have fun, Rodney."

"Dry canapes in the company of people who'd idea of groundbreaking interior design stops just after indoor plumbing is not my idea of _fun_ Rodney retorted.

He was spared further lectures by Amelia, calling to tell him his 9:30 appointment was waiting in reception.

* * *

"I was thinking maybe plum?" His 11:00, a redhead called Lena or Lorna or something, gestured around the stripped dining room.

"Plum?" Rodney asked.

"Yes," maybe-Laura nodded. "Something dark and dramatic."

"But, you'll get the evening light," Rodney said, looking out of the picture window to the balcony. There were amazing views over the city, and the sunset would fill the big room with liquid golden light. "You need colours like sand, wheat, old gold, to work with that."

Laura wrinkled her nose. "When I was researching, the design magazines said dark colours were popular. John Sheppard-"

"Is a hack who never grew out of thinking painting his bedroom black was the _coolest thing ever_," Rodney cut her off. That _damned_ article. "Look, if you want to completely ruin the perfect light you've got in this room fine, paint the damned walls purple, but find someone else to do it. I won't have my name associated with it." He picked up his briefcase and the Polaroid he used to take snapshots of new rooms, then swept out, leaving the door to slam shut behind him.

* * *

"So, that's one fewer deluded client we have to cope with at least," Rodney explained.

Teyla put down the tester pot of duck egg blue paint and screwed the lid on carefully.

"Rodney," she began. "You know I value your friendship and your expertise."

"Yes," Rodney said. "Thank you."

"And truly, your grasp of what will work in a room and the pieces to complement it is almost unparalleled.

"That's kind of you to say," Rodney said, fearing the worst. Teyla was glacially calm.

"But you _cannot_ continue to lose us clients like this!" she said, finally raising her voice as loud as she ever did.

"She wanted _purple_!" he said. "Purple, Teyla!"

"And, had you not lost your temper, you would have been able to persuade her otherwise," Teyla said.

"It's _Sheppard_! Being all mysterious and reclusive, and suddenly everyone wants their dining rooms to look like Dracula's bordello!" Rodney said, frustrated. If Sheppard ever came out of hiding he was so getting a piece of his mind.

"It is not Sheppard who is shouting at our prospective clients Rodney," she said firmly.

"I'm sorry," Rodney said, meaning it, mostly. "Look, we've got the conference room at the Ramada; they want furniture that _won't_ give everyone carpel tunnel in five minutes. That will help tide us over this month.

Teyla unscrewed the lid of the paint and laid a careful stripe on her board next to the square of burnished steel counter top.

"It is a start. And, as you will _of course_ be attending the launch on Wednesday evening, we will have the perfect opportunity to solicit new clients," she said.

Rodney thought about complaining again, then thought about the balance sheets.

"Is it black tie?" he asked, admitting defeat.

* * *

"So, I hear you're the next big thing," Ronon chuckled as John opened the door. He held up a magazine, folded to show the headline **The New Dark Ages**.

"Not you too," John groaned. He hadn't been interviewed for the article, but that hadn't stopped Chuck gleefully calling him and congratulating him on his big break. Ronon followed him into his office.

"Good publicity," Ronon said. He hitched his hip onto the desk, and John quickly moved some swatches of delicate russet velvet out of the way.

"I suppose so," John said. "At least it will bring in the clients."

"You know what else will bring them in?" Ronon asked. He brushed plaster dust off his jeans-clearly having come straight from the new build at Pegasus.

 

"Not this again," John groaned. Ronon had been great, leasing him the apartment above Pegasus at a ridiculously low rent, and giving him his break with the Sateda refit, but somehow he seemed to have elected himself John's life coach at the same time.

 

"You need to get your face out there."

John was spared answering by the phone.

"Hey, Chuck," he said.

"Two more appointments boss," Chuck said. "General and Mrs Landry at noon tomorrow, and a Laura Cadman at three this afternoon. I've emailed the details. The three o'clock was one of Athos's clients."

The smugness in Chuck's voice was plain to hear.

"No need to gloat," John said, opening his calendar and adding the appointments.

"McKay's livid apparently," Chuck said, unrepentant.

"How do you know?" John asked. He'd never met the man, and doubted Chuck had either.

"A good assistant knows all," Chuck said mysteriously.

"OK, well all-knowing one, get those invoices out today if you can. And remind the Becketts that there'll be no water while the bathroom is being remodelled, so they might want to get a hotel."

"Already on it," Chuck said, and hung up.

"If you get over this ridiculous hermit thing you've got going on, you could give him his own office," Ronon remarked.

"I'm not a hermit. And he works from home, that's what a virtual assistant _does_." John made a mental note to call Pigment and ask Dusty to make sure the bathroom paint had mould resistance agents.

"So," Ronon said, picking chips of slate flooring, "this thing with Athos."

"There's no thing!" John protested. The article made it sound like they were engaged in a bitter struggle for clients; it was really annoying. "I've never even met them- what's she called, Tonya?"

"Teyla. And her partner, Rodney McKay."

"I've seen their designs. I like them," John said, plucking the slate out of Ronon's hand, "but he doesn't seem to like mine. Three clients have come to me after he chewed them out."

"Well, it's a start," Ronon said. "You gonna go to this?" He held up the envelope with the gallery invite.

"No, probably not," John said. He really didn't feel like dealing with huge groups of people.

"You should," Ronon said. "You need to stop hiding."

"I'm not hiding," John said. "I'm just, not looking for publicity."

"Do you want to fail?" Ronon asked bluntly. "Actually live down to your dad's expectations?"

"People would rather hire an eccentric hermit than a discharged pilot," John said bitterly. They'd been having this argument for three months, ever since he'd looked round the finished dining room at Sateda and decided that yes, he could do this full time. But then he'd looked at the other designers' publicity, making the most of their art degrees and apprenticeships and contacts. No way did his background measure up to that, so it seemed better to just let the designs speak for themselves.

"Your dad did a number on you. You are not a disappointment," Ronon said seriously. "And people will _want_ to say they had their home designed by a war hero"

"Heroes don't get damn-near court martialled and then discharged," John said, sorting through the scraps of wallpaper to find the one he was looking for.

"So, that wasn't Holland's fortieth birthday party you went to last month then," Ronon asked, raising an eyebrow. John was acutely aware of how the Sateda sous-chefs must feel.

"It was," he admitted.

"There you go then," Ronon said, as if that explained everything. He slapped the invite into John's hand.

"Go, Sheppard. You need the clients, and you need to see that people aren't going to care that you flew choppers instead of sanding floor. And if you see McKay, you can tell him his designs don't suck. Or not, if he's that worked up about you."

"If I go, will you stop hassling me?" John said.

"No promises, Sheppard."

* * *

John sipped his flat champagne and tried to make himself inconspicuous next to a potted plant. The gallery opening was everything he'd feared, hot, stuffy, full of boring people, and not a decent canape in sight. He'd given out a few business cards, smiled throughout countless reiterations of 'so _you're_ John Sheppard', and got caught in the middle of what was obviously a long standing argument about the right way to decorate a den; he really hoped the tall silver-haired guy was joking when he said the design keys should be 'Minnesota Lakes, and The Simpsons'. People kept trying to talk to him about his background, his influences, and his answers- the Air Force, and whatever felt right for the room, didn't seem to satisfy them. A few tried to dig more deeply about his service record, but he wasn't about to lay out the whole sorry story for the world to pick over.

After escaping one particularly persistent woman who wanted to talk about the 'obvious Euro-Goth music influences' on his work he'd grabbed his champagne and plate of miniature quiche and sought the sanctuary of the potted plant. Seriously, he'd never even heard of The Sisters of Mercy. He tugged on the collar of his shirt and peered around the plant. She didn't seem to be anywhere in sights, so he slipped out of his hiding place and went over to study one of the new acquisitions, a bronze glass vase with an unusual blue-green patina. The colours were exactly what he was looking for for the Landry house, and he pulled out his iPhone to take a surreptitious picture.

Someone knocked into him, jolting the phone out of his hand.

"Sorry," she said hurriedly, though she didn't stop to help.

"Great," muttered John under his breath. He knelt down to pick up the phone from where it had skittered under one of the exhibits. As he got slowly to his feet his eyes drew level with the backside of a man opposite. It was a pretty nice view; the man had broad shoulders and the cut of his tuxedo pants emphasised his ass- round and full and squeezable. He was studying a wall hanging, gesturing widely to the man and woman with him.

_Nice_ John thought. Very nice.

Mindful of Ronon's other suggestion ("Full of people, Sheppard. There's bound to be someone who rings your bell), he was about to go over and introduce himself to the ass's owner when the guy said his own name.

"Sheppard this, Sheppard that. When did that pseudo-goth wannabe become the next big thing?"

"Rodney," the woman next to him, petite and athletic, said reproachfully. "That's not fair. People are excited by something new, that is all."

Rodney. It had to be Rodney McKay. John tried to eavesdrop and still look inconspicuous

"Enough," the short guy with crazy hair said. "Let us instead talk about your ideas for the Hammond Penthouse. You mentioned solar panels?"

"Yes," Rodney settled at the table with his back to John, and John shifted closer to the wall hanging. "You know how that guy is about his granddaughters, and they've got him convinced the whole penthouse should be as climate-neutral as possible. So, solar panels for parts of the roof, but I'm also thinking of better insulation for heat-"

 

"And you want to talk about the possibility of the sedum roofing I used on the Radisson Europa?" The guy had an accent, John realised. European, but he couldn't place it any more firmly.

"Well, it's insulating, has been proven to cut down on the need for air conditioning, provides a wildlife benefit-"

"Yes yes, but the penthouse is extensive. It would be an expensive job,"

"Zelenka, the man's the _definition_ of Texan oil. He can afford it!" Rodney waved his hands, and Teyla and Zelenka, clearly used to it, ducked.

"And then there's the heating system. Can you come into the office tomorrow and look at the building plans? I think we should be able to install a hypocaust to use excess heat from the hot water system."

John listened as the two men and Teyla chattered about organic wall coverings and natural pigments, as well as sustainable wood floors and counter tops made of recycled tires. Rodney seemed to know as much about architecture and engineering as he did about design, and John was fascinated. He was about to give up and face the inevitable scorn when he introduced himself when Ronon sprawled into the chair next to him.

"This doesn't look like networking Sheppard," he said, with the grin that terrified every pastry chef in Manhattan.

"What are you doing here?" John asked.

"I have my ways," Ronon said mysteriously. "Why aren't you out there?" he waved an arm to encompass the crowd.

"I was bored," John said. He watched as Rodney's crowd got up from the table and made their way to the dessert table, still talking animatedly. He heard his own name again, and Rodney's scoffing response. "And the one interesting person thinks I'm some kind of, what did he say? 'Pseudo goth wannabe'". The words still stung a little.

"McKay?" Ronon said, following John's gaze.

"Yeah. Did you know he knows a load of stuff about engineering? And he's working on some really interesting Green design stuff."

"He was an engineer before he was a designer. And that guy? Zelenka? He's Europe's top authority on sustainable building," Ronon said. He'd got dessert from somewhere, chocolate cherry cake, and took a big forkful as John asked,

"How do you know all this?"

Ronon swallowed. "Melena's subscribed to _Wallpaper_ for years."

John shook his head, and followed Rodney with his eyes.

"Well, he won't give me the time of day, so I guess I'll have to rely on you for the gossip."

Ronon laughed and put down his plate,

"Stop moping and get out there," he said, giving him a shove.

* * *

John made one more circuit of the gallery, giving out more business cards, smiling politely, charming the crowd. He could do it, his father had made certain of that much, though Patrick Sheppard had no doubt envisaged him charming investors and board members, not this crowd of design hungry-socialites. He found himself at the dessert table, trying to decide between chocolate cherry cake and chestnut gateau, when he heard a familiar voice.

"Well, that's very-" Rodney, pinned against the table by a guy who was expanding at length on _something_. Rodney looked a man in need of rescue.

Acting on impulse, as always, John picked up his plate and smoothly cut into the conversation.

"Ahh, Rodney, I'm glad I found you," he said, cupping Rodney's elbow. "Excuse us," he said, throwing the other man a smile over his shoulder, "I just need to borrow Rodney for a moment."

"Do I know you?" Rodney asked as John steered him away from the table to a quite corner.

"No," John said, letting his hand stroke along Rodney's crisp shirtsleeve and away, "but you looked like you were working out how to kill that guy with you champagne glass."

"Ellis," Rodney said, sighing. "He's always trying to get me to work for him. As if! The guy makes John Sheppard look like Terence Conran."

_Ouch_ John thought.

"So, if I don't know you, who are you?" Rodney asked. Up close his eyes were shockingly blue, and his crooked mouth looked soft and inviting.

"Brendan," John said, on impulse again, "Brendan Vincent."

"Rodney McKay." His handshake was firm and quick. "Except you seem to already know that."

"I read _Wallpaper_," John said, smiling at him. Rodney smiled back, one corner of his mouth titled up.

"So, are you a designer? A donor?" Rodney asked as he snagged two glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and passed one over.

"I'm new in town. A friend of mine came here with me, but he seems to have disappeared," John said, trying to stick to the truth as close as possible.

"Yes, my partner. Erm, that is, my business partner, seems to have abandoned me too," Rodney said.

"Guess we'll have to stick together then," John said, clinking his glass against Rodney's, and smiling.

* * *

"Hang on, Teyla," Rodney said as he spotted a black-clad figure on his way to the door. The evening was winding down and he and Teyla stood in line for the cloak room to collect their coats. "Brendan! Brendan!"

Brendon looked up and gave him that smirky smile, then hurried over.

"Calling it a night, Rodney?" he drawled, in the same lazy way that had Rodney thinking some very definite _thoughts_ earlier that evening.

"Well, some of us have to work," Rodney said, amazed at the rapport they had, and deciding that he'd risk it. "Um, I was wondering, seeing as you're new in town and all,"

"Yeah.."

"Well, I've lived here for years. Maybe I could show you around?"

"Well," Brendan said slowly, "I'm kinda busy tomorrow."

"Oh, OK,"Rodney said, heart falling. This was exactly why he didn't date. He sucked at reading the signs.

"But, I have to eat," Brendan said, grinning. "You want to have dinner with me?"

"Great!" Rodney said, feeling relieved and excited, and pointedly ignoring Teyla's knowing smile. He pulled out a business card and scribbled on the back. "This is my cell. Why don't you meet me at the office tomorrow, and then we'll go get something to eat."

Brendan tucked the card into his pocket, and nodded.

"See you tomorrow then," he said, and moved toward the door.

"Yeah, tomorrow," Rodney said, looking after him.

"Rodney," Teyla said, handing him his coat. "Did you just make a date?"

"Um, yes?" Rodney said. "What! I'm allowed!"

"And to think I had to talk you into coming tonight," she said teasingly.

"Fine, fine," Rodney said, still distractedly thinking of messy black hair, and changeable hazel eyes.

* * *

"Rodney, I know you are looking forward to this evening, but I need your input on these textiles _before_ the Hoff deadline," Teyla said reproachfully.

Rodney shook head and drew his thoughts away from the best place to take Brendan tonight, and back towards the new line of textiles. It had been Teyla's idea. Frustrated at been able to find textiles that also fit in with their ethical policy, she'd cut out the middle man and gone straight to the producers themselves. Hoff were a small indie dying and weaving team out of Portland, and the test swatches were spread out on the desk in front of them.

"Hmmm, " Rodney said, looking at the cotton twill and jacquard silk, and picking up a square to test the hand. "That one, the taupe with the ivory thread running through it."

Teyla added it to the 'yes' pile.

"And I thought the wheat silk, and the moss cotton. Where are you going tonight?" She took the two squares and laid then next to each other, the subdued colours blending and matching perfectly.

"I don't know?" Rodney said. He'd been thinking about it all day, but had yet to come to a decision. Brendan's suit had said money, but he hadn't seemed at home in the big crowd last night. He himself didn't want to go somewhere too crowded, but he really had no idea what Brendan would like.

"Kanaan and I had a wonderful dinner at Sateda," Teyla suggested. "The tagine was delicious."

"I have to deal with Sheppard's designs all day, I don't want to eat in them as well," Rodney said pettishly. "Maybe I'll take him to Parrish instead."

Teyla secured all the 'yes' squares with a rubber band, and put them back into the bag. "Rodney," she said "I am happy to see you so excited, but -"

"But what?" Rodney asked, already thinking whether he should call David to book a table, or just take the chance that at midweek it wouldn't be too busy.

"But, you met this man yesterday. You know nothing about him."

"That's what's dates are _for_, isn't that what you are always telling me?" Rodney said, confused. Normally Teyla was the one urging him to be more outgoing.

"I just, wish you to be careful. After Jennifer-"

"Which we agreed we would not talk about. She's much better off. And Wisconsin I'm told is lovely this time of year," Rodney said, flatly. It was odd that even Teyla, who was practically psychic, still persisted in thinking of Jennifer as the one that got away, when after an incredibly embarrassing couple of months moping he'd realised that it had been the idea of her, young and vibrant and blonde, that had been attractive, rather than the woman herself.

Teyla sighed, the big sigh reserved for him, and accidents involving Torren and yoghurt.

"Very well,"she said.

* * *

Rodney was shrugging into his clean shirt, cornflower blue (he knew exactly what it did for his eyes, he was a designer after all), when Amelia rapped at the door, and pushed it open without waiting for an answer.

"Jesus!" Rodney squeaked, pulling the sides of the shirt together over his bare chest.

"Nothing I haven't seen before, Rodney," Amelia smirked, handing over the sheaf of papers for him to sign.

"Baby pictures do not count. And don't think I've forgotten that I owe you revenge for that," he said. "I should never have let you meet Jeannie."

"I'm quaking in my boots," she said, unconcernedly.

The phone trilled suddenly, and Rodney gave her a pleading look. Much longer in the office and he'd be late to meet Brendan. She picked up the phone.

"Athos Partners, Amelia speaking. Yes, of course. Our designers work with the natural light and layout of your home. We use ethically sourced materials, and ergonomically designed furniture to make your home as comfortable as- Yes. Yes. We don't tend to- No, no, not much purple and black, we feel the home is a place of- well, yes, he seems he might be a better fit. Good evening."

She put the phone down with a frown.

"Another one deserting us for Sheppard?" Rodney asked, tucking his shirt in hastily and picking up his jacket.

"Yep," she said. "The third this week."

Rodney wrinkled his nose in disgust

"I thought people had better taste," he said.

"Don't think about that now," Amelia said "Date night! Go get laid!" She shook imaginary pompoms to punctuate the sentence.

"Why do we keep you around?" Rodney said rhetorically, already halfway out the door.

"Because I can put up with your moods," she answered. "Have fun! Tell me the details!" she called after him.

Rodney just shook his head, and went down to the lobby to meet Brendan.

* * *

"Did you land on your head once too often?" Ronon asked.

"Look," John said, wedging the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he put his subway card in the machine, "It, I don't know, it seemed like a good idea at the time." He hurried out of the subway station. He was almost late to meet Rodney, a phonecall with suppliers having taken longer than he'd hoped.

"You're not going to be able to keep this up," Ronon said. John could hear the clash of pans and the calls of the servers in the background.

"It's just a bit of fun- I'll tell him I'm leaving town or something," John said, only half-listening.

Ronon snorted "You'll get attached, you always do. And once McKay finds out? His temper is legendary, and whatever he says, you'll deserve it."

"Fine, I'll tell him it was a mistake. Get it all cleared up," John squinted ahead and saw the lobby of the Lantea Building up ahead. "Look, I've got to go, I'm almost at Rodney's building."

"If he kills you can I have your guitar?" Ronon asked.

"Shut up," John said, hanging up.

He smiled at the receptionist in the lobby, and took a seat in one of the _insanely comfortable_ leather armchairs. A note on one of the side tables read, "Chairs provided by Athos Partners, 4th floor". If this was an example of Rodney's attention to detail, no wonder Athos were so well-regarded.

_Rodney,_he rehearsed in his head, _There's been a bit of a misunderstanding. I-_

"Brendan!" Rodney called. John looked up and felt his mouth go dry. McKay had looked good in last night's tux, but his blue shirt bought out his eyes, making them almost glow, as well as hugging surprisingly broad shoulders for someone who worked at a desk most of the time. His grey khakis were fitted beautifully across his strong thighs, and when he turned to swipe his card at the door, John's eyes were drawn almost magnetically to Rodney's ass, as round and tempting as he'd remembered from the night before, outlined just right in the sturdy grey cloth.

"Hey," he said, grinning slowly, and gratified in his own choice of a soft linen shirt and black jeans when Rodney's eyes flicked up and down his body before coming back up to his face.

"You found the place all right then?" Rodney asked as they went out into the busy street. "Of course you did, you're here, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I did." John said, stepping closer to Rodney as he was jostled by a woman carrying about ten different shopping bags. "Listen Rodney, I-"

"God, I have had such a day," Rodney said. "We lost another client to that damned John Sheppard. I just don't get it! That whole 'mysterious hermit' thing! Please! He's probably really hiding out painting his nails black and listen to The Cure on repeat."

John snorted, amused and offended all at once.

"You really hate his designs, huh?" he asked as they went down into the subway.

"Well, I've not seen many of them. I suppose the Sateda refit is OK, for a restaurant, but homes should be relaxing! How can you relax in something that looks like a vampire's lair?!"

Privately John sort of agreed. The deep rich colours he was so fond of worked fine in the large, spacious houses of his youth, but in the tiny Manhattan apartments they were a bit oppressive. Still, after that ridiculous article it was all people wanted, and he wasn't about to turn down the work.

"Sheppard's probably never grown out of thinking it was daring to paint your bedroom black," Rodney continued dismissively. "Anyway, you don't want to hear this. I've booked us a table at Parrish, that ok?"

"Sure," John said as the subway door opened and they got on board the car, "sounds good."

Rodney grinned at him, the oddly attractive lopsided grin he'd noticed last night, and John figured he could just as easily tell him _after_ the meal.

* * *

"Thank you," Rodney said as the server cleared the plates from the starter. Parrish was cool and airy, but still intimate. It had been the first restaurant he'd designed, and David had had very clear ideas about the kind of look he wanted to create. The blond wood floors, stainless steel accents and the blue and white textiles fitted the restaurant's 'fresh and local' ethos perfectly, and the LED 'candles' on each table gave a cosy intimacy without creating excess waste.

"This is a nice place," Brendan said, gesturing with his wine glass.

"Thanks, I designed it," Rodney said, pleased.

"Cool," Brendan nodded.

"So, you heard all about my day, how about yours? You didn't actually say what you do?" Rodney asked. Brendan had tolerated his outburst earlier, and on the subway they'd talked a bit about rush hour, and how Brendan was still getting used to the subway, being new in town and all, and mostly Rodney had just stared at the man's gorgeous mouth and listened to that whispery drawl that could make anything sound indecent.

"Oh, well, I was in the Air Force," Brendan ducked his head, "but I left, about a year ago."

Rodney was about to ask why, but the look on Brendan's face told him that that would not be a good idea. Despite what Teyla thought, he wasn't completely devoid of tact.

"Ok, so that was a year ago; what about now?" Rodney said, sitting back in his chair to let the server put down his main course. One reason he liked eating here was that David's partner had a milk allergy, so the whole restaurant was really good about allergens. He'd never had to send anything back, which was practically a miracle.

"Well," Brendan said, cutting into his steak, "I deal in furniture. That's why I was there last night, my friend thought it would be a good idea."

"Oh," said Rodney, pleased and surprised at the coincidence, "I haven't heard of you at all." He'd have _remembered_ someone like Brendan.

"Like I said, I'm new in town. I was in Virginia, at my parent's home, sorting some things out. My father died, and I had to help my brother with the estate."

"I'm sorry," Rodney said. "Was that why you left the Air Force?"

"No. Then, once that was done, I came up to New York to check out some auction houses, see if I could make a go of it. I've got a short term lease on a storage place, so we'll see how things go."

"So, you're not going to be sticking around then?" Rodney said, disappointed. Suddenly his trout with almonds looked a lot less appetising.

"I'm not sure yet," Brendan said, rubbing his foot against Rodney's, "but feel free to help persuade me."

"I can do that," Rodney said, hooking his foot around Brendan's ankle.

The trout was delicious.

"I had a good evening," Brendan said as they strolled along.

"Good, me too," Rodney said. After dinner they'd gone to Miko's cafe, and spent hours chatting, arguing about sci-fi (Rodney still wasn't over Torchwood,) and talking about furniture. Brendan's tastes were more towards the vintage and antique than Rodney's, but he was clearly knowledgeable and passionate about furniture, and Rodney hadn't realised how much time had passed until Miko herself came over to remind them that she closed at midnight.

"I mean it," Brendan said, turning to him as they got to his station. "I'd always thought New York City was unfriendly. Guess I just needed to meet you."

"Oh, I," Rodney said, but his words deserted him as Brendan leaned in and kissed him. His lips were as soft and sweet as Rodney had been imagining, the faint rasp of stubble just adding to the frisson of pleasure. Brendan kissed him again, sweeping his tongue into his mouth, and Rodney tasted faint traces of Miko's green tea ice cream. He kissed him back gently, and Brendan said

"Hmmmmm" happily, before pulling away.

"So," he said, voice a little husky, "I'm busy all day tomorrow, but can I see you on Saturday?"

"Yeah, yeah," Rodney said, flustered, "That would be good."

Brendan kissed him again, sweetly, body warm against his in the chill air.

"Rodney, I," he said, then broke off.

"What?" Rodney said

"I'm really glad I met you," Brendan said in a rush. Then he kissed him again quickly, before hurrying down the steps and into to the station.

"Yeah," Rodney said to the empty air. "I am too."

* * *

"So, good date?" Amelia asked the next morning.

"Yes," Rodney said, "and no, I'm not telling you all the details."

"Come on, that's not fair!" she complained. "I tell you and Teyla."

"Whether we want you to or not," Rodney said.

"At least tell me you slept with him," she teased.

"No! And no! Don't you have invoices to send?"

"Fine," she said, pulling a face. "But I know it went well- you haven't bought us coffee since you were hooking up with Daniel."

Rodney mock-glared at her, but she just smiled sunnily and went back to her reception desk.

"She is right," Teyla said, sipping her chai,"I take it that was a successful date."

"Yes," Rodney said. "I'm seeing him again tomorrow." He couldn't help the smile at the memory of Brendan's words.

_I'd always thought New York City was unfriendly. Guess I just needed to meet you._

"We just, really clicked," he said, aware how soppy he sounded. "He's got brains, surprisingly, under all that crazy hair."

"I am happy for you," Teyla said. "Now, you wanted my input on the Hammond designs?"

"Yes," Rodney said, and spread out the designs for her to look at, wishing it was Saturday already.

* * *

"You've got to be kidding me," Rodney said.

John just grinned. He'd intended for them to just have a walk around Central Park, and then get lunch somewhere, but when he'd seen the carriages he'd been unable to resist.

"Nope. C'mon Rodney, everyone has to do it once."

"I've lived here ten years. No, they don't."

John just scrambled up into the carriage and held out his hand. Rodney hesitated, then grabbed it and pulled himself up. The driver clicked to the horse, and it started plodding slowly along the path.

"I hate horses," Rodney said.

"I grew up with them," John said. "You know I said I had to go back and sort out the estate? Part of it was the horses. Dave, that's my brother, he wanted to get rid of them all, the stud stallions, the pony I learned to ride on, all of them." He gritted his teeth. He still couldn't believe Dave had had the nerve. Thank god for Nancy.

"Oh, Brendan, I'm sorry," Rodney said. John started a little at the name. After their second date had gone as well as the first, including some really enjoyable kissing and groping in the movie theatre like horny teens, John had meant to tell him, he had. But there just hadn't seemed the right time, and now the longer he left it, the harder it was.

"It's OK. My ex-wife has them. She has the space, and I help pay for the upkeep."

"Ex wife?" Rodney squeaked.

"My Dad's idea. It was nice and respectable, and her family and mine did business together. He liked her, probably more than he liked me, and at the time it seemed worth it just to avoid the arguments."

"Shit, I'm sorry." Rodney squeezed his hand.

"Not your fault. Hell, I'd been disappointing him since I joined the Air Force. The divorce was just the icing." John knew the bitterness was showing in his voice. Rodney slung an arm around his shoulders, and pulled him into a hug.

"Hmph, well, clearly he was an idiot," Rodney said, looking affronted.

John just leaned up and kissed him.

"It was leave, or face a court martial," he said later, warming up in Miko's cafe.

"What?" Rodney asked, sipping his mocha.

"Why I left the Air Force." He didn't know why he was telling him; it was like he wanted Rodney to know the real him, even if he didn't know his real name.

"OK..." Rodney said, looking awkward. "You going to tell me the rest or just leave it there?"

"A..friend of my went down. I took a chopper, against orders, and went to rescue him. It wasn't the first time I'd disobeyed orders, so, I was given a choice- leave, and lose my benefits, or face a court martial, and probably prison. I took the dishonourable discharge."

He said it as dispassionately as he could, but it still stung.

"Friend? Or-" Rodney asked.

"No! Just a friend. Holland was married, he'd just heard his wife was pregnant."

"And you wanted him to live to see his kid," Rodney said shrewdly.

"I just know you don't leave a man behind." John said stubbornly.

"Did you rescue him?"

"Yeah," John said. "And the other airmen with him."

"Well, than that's the most important thing," Rodney said, with the air of someone stating the obvious.

"Tell that to my dad," John said, taking a bite of his sandwich. "He was mad at the 'disgrace'."

"I know I've said it before, but your dad sounds like he was a dick," Rodney said bluntly.

John laughed, despite himself.

"He kinda was."

"Well then," Rodney said. "You dad was a dick, you were a dashing war hero. I know which one I prefer."

John couldn't help but smile.

***

"So, how did you get into the whole furniture thing?" Rodney asked a few days later as they sat together on a park bench, pressed together, and drinking coffee.

"My mom. She had this chair, Modernist, with this gorgeous Hoffman fabric. She used to sit me on her lap in it, and we'd read, or watch TV, or just sit. I loved that chair. She died, when I was eight, and my dad got rid of all her furniture, the chair, everything that reminded him of her."

"What is it with your family and getting rid of stuff?" Rodney asked indignantly, and John laughed, and fell a little bit in love with him. He kissed the side of Rodney's head affectionately, and continued.

"Yeah well, when I was 18 and my inheritance from her became mine to spend, I decided to look for the chair. I couldn't find it, but I enjoyed the research, and I found some other stuff I liked, and I just kept at it, you know? After I left the Air Force, I thought, why not?"

"Why not?" Rodney repeated. "Have you got a permanent showroom yet?"

"Um," John stalled. It was getting harder and harder to put Rodney off visiting the imaginary store room. "Well, I've kind of been distracted this last week ."

"Distracted, why, what-Oh! Am I the distraction?" Rodney said, and he sounded so gleefully surprised that John had to kiss him, the crowds surrounding them be damned, pushing his hands inside Rodney's open coat, feeling Rodney's strong arms come round him, Rodney's mouth open to him, smelling coffee and the pretzel they'd shared. It was still new to him, being able to kiss and touch like this without the fear of being found out, but Rodney made it worth it.

When they finally drew apart, Rodney's pupils were wide, and he was flushed pink.

"Yes, you're the distraction," John said.

"Well, I'm about to be less of one," Rodney said. "I've got a couple of really busy days, but, I thought, maybe you'd like to come round on Saturday night?"

John heard the invitation of _more_. They hadn't done much more than make out and grope, even though he'd been to Rodney's place a couple of times. Rodney was hot, but after years of rushed fucks and blowjobs he was kind of enjoying taking it slow. Not that he'd complain if Rodney wanted to speed it up.

"I would," He grinned.

"Great! It's a date!"

"That's generally what people who're dating do, Rodney," John drawled.

"Oh, shut up," Rodney said, thumping him, then kissing him before he could complain.

* * *

Rodney stretched out on top of Brendan, kissing him, threading his hands through Brendan's spiky hair and rubbing his fingers across his scalp. They'd planned on take-out and then vicious mocking of the fourth Indiana Jones movie, but somewhere around the fridge scene Brendan had just _looked_ at him, and suddenly Rodney had no interest at all in Harrison Ford.

He pressed closer, grateful for the huge sofa and moved his mouth down to lick and bite at Brendan's neck. Brendan moaned, hands moving restlessly across his back. Rodney chuckled into his skin, then sat back.

"Will you take this off?" he asked, fingers playing with the buttons of Brendan's green shirt. They'd fooled around some, and Rodney had ended more than one date with come-sticky boxers, but, despite Amelia's scorn, he liked to wait for actual sex.

"Sure," Brendan said breathlessly, "long as you do the same."

Rodney had barely tugged his t-shirt off and thrown it onto the floor when Brendan was on him, pushing him back onto the sofa and running his hands all over him, sucking a mark into the skin of his shoulder before moving lower, kissing the dip of his collarbone and licking his nipple.

"Oh," Rodney breathed-pleasure as always sparking from his nipples straight to his cock, which was hardening in his jeans.

Brendan obviously noticed, because he ground down against him, then murmured

"Like that huh?" before moving his mouth to the other nipple.

"Yes, god, _Brendan_," Rodney said semi-coherently, trying to tug Brendan up so he could kiss him, while at the same time trying to work his hand between them so he could palm Brendan's cock through his jeans.

That was suddenly a lot easier when Brendan sat up, but then he rolled abruptly off Rodney and dug into his pocket, pulling out his phone.

"God, sorry Rodney, I have to take this," he said, and walked out into the hall.

Rodney straightened the lampshade that Brendan's shirt had knocked askew, and tried to remember which side of the bed he'd put the lube.

"I'm really sorry," Brendan said, coming back into the room, and picking up his phone, "I have to go, that was someone I've been trying to persuade to sell me their collection for months. They'll meet me tonight."

"Oh," Rodney said, non-plussed. "I, it can't wait 'til tomorrow?"

Brendan finished buttoning his shirt, and leaned down to kiss him.

"I don't want to take the risk."

"Oh, well, I guess.." Rodney said. His disappointment must have shown on his face, because Brendan kissed him again, harder.

"Believe me, I know that it's terrible timing. Listen, why don't you come over tomorrow, and we'll finish what we started."

"OK," Rodney said. "I, um, hope the meeting goes well."

"Me too. See you tomorrow Rodney." Brendan kissed him once more, and let himself out.

It wasn't until Rodney had put his shirt back on, and skipped back to the fridge scene, that he realised what was bothering him.

He and Brendan had been pressed together pretty tight, tight enough that he could feel Brendan's cock rubbing against his own.

He hadn't felt the phone vibrate at all.

* * *

"So, then, we're there in his apartment, and it's going really well, and he calls me _Brendan_," John finished up, looking up from where he was muffling his face in his arms.

Ronon looked less than sympathetic.

"What did you do?"

"Faked a phone call and left. I couldn't sleep with the guy, not lying to him like that."

He'd rushed home and called Ronon, then drunk two beers in quick succession whilst waiting for him to come over, trying to block out the feel of Rodney against him, his sweet little gasps, and the way he had moaned the fake name, no matter how hot it had been.

"Told you this was a bad idea," Ronon said, opening another beer and setting it down in front of him. "What are you going to do?"

"Only thing I can do- tell him the truth," John said quietly. "If, if he was just a quick lay I'd just call it off."

"Told you, you get attached," Ronon remarked.

"Yeah," John said. Attached was too mild a word. He had to tell Rodney, and hope that, somehow, he'd understand. But he wouldn't blame him if he didn't.

"I'll tell him tomorrow," John said.

"Got any songs you want for your funeral?" Ronon asked.

John thunked his head down on the table.

"Not. Helping."

* * *

Rodney tacked a couple of Polaroids onto his board, trying to concentrate. There was something not working with the Weir kitchen, but he couldn't work out what it was. The space was ideal, and he had free rein, but still, the pieces didn't gel. He sighed.

"Rodney, are you well?" Teyla asked, looking concerned.

"The kitchen I'm designing for Elizabeth," he said. "It's just not working." It was frustrating, it should have been a simple, quick job. He'd designed the rest of Elizabeth's interiors, and she wanted a unity of design and colour throughout the whole house, so it should have been easy.

"You have been distracted all day," Teyla remarked, standing and moving to look over his shoulder. "Did your date with Brendan not end well?"

"No," Rodney said. It had been bothering him all day. People did not just run off like that. "I think he's, I don't know, but something's wrong."

"Then you must talk to him about it," Teyla said, in that irritatingly practical way she had.

"I'm seeing him tonight," Rodney replied, moving the photos around again. It still wasn't working, the tall cabinets he'd decided on seeming to loom too much, despite the size of the room.

"Then you have only a few hours to wait," she said. She leaned across and plucked a picture of a kitchen island from the reject pile, and stuck it back on the board.

"Leave the cabinets low," she advised. "Then you can continue the painted tiles from the utility room without breaking the pattern."

Rodney looked at the oak island for a second, then smiled.

"Sometimes, Teyla, you outdo me. Not often, mind, but sometimes."

Teyla sighed, and shook her head fondly.

* * *

"Hey," Brendan said as he opened the door. "Um, come in. Dinner's nearly ready."

Rodney looked around the living room, thinking as he did that for a guy that sold furniture Brendan didn't really have a lot of it. A battered chesterfield, black leather cracking at the buttons, and a matching, well worn black armchair with a soft-looking black afghan tossed over it. A couple of what looked like Ikea, IKEA! bookshelves against the dark mink walls. The only thing that really stood out was the black lacquer and glass coffee table.

"So listen," Brendan said, "I was a bit of ass last night."

"A _bit_?" Rodney said, aghast. "I pratically had your dick in my hand and you suddenly decide _furniture_ is more interesting! Look, I know we've been fooling around for a few weeks, but if you're getting bored the decent thing to do would be to tell me!" He'd progressed from confused to pissed off as the day wore on, and he was all set to give Brendan a piece of his mind.

"God, no! I'm not bored!" Brendan said, sounding frustrated. "It's just, a bit of a long story."

"So," Rodney said, sitting on the chesterfield. It was more comfortable than it looked. "Tell me."

Brendan sat next to him, and put his hand on his thigh, stroking gently

"You are about the least boring person I've ever met," Brendan said, then leaned forward to kiss him. Rodney kissed him back automatically, revelling as always in Brendan's soft, generous lips, before remembering he was still annoyed.

"That's as may be," he said, secretly more than a little pleased, "but it doesn't get you out of explaining."

"OK," Brendan took a deep breath, as though he was steeling himself. Before he could say anything though, a timer shrilled in the kitchen.

"That's dinner," Brendan said ruefully. "Do you wanna eat first?"

Rodney was about to say no, but the food smelled so good, an after Teyla's stroke of genius he'd ended up working flat out to completely redesign Elizabeth's kitchen and get the cabinets and hand painted tiles ordered in time for her open house for the model UN the week after next. He'd had some of Amelia's boyfriend's home made cake (the boy was besotted, he thought privately that she'd eat him alive) at around mid afternoon, but other than that he couldn't actually remember when he last ate.

"Yeah," he said. "That'd be good."

"Great," Brendan said. "I'll go dish it up."

"We're not eating off that?!" Rodney said, pointing at the coffee table.

"'S just a table Rodney," Brendan said.

"Are you _sure_ you're a furniture expert?" Rodney said. Brendan ducked his head a little, but just said,

"I'll go get dinner," before opening the connecting door to the kitchen.

"Ok, I'll, um, bathroom?" Rodney said.

"Sure, out into the hall, and it's the second door on the left." Brendan said over his shoulder.

On his way back from the bathroom (standard white tile, although the DWR faucets were a nice touch), Rodney noticed another door half ajar. He could still hear Brendan clanking about in the kitchen, and he'd always been curious about people's homes, it went with the job. He pushed open the door to reveal what had obviously been the second bedroom, now converted into an office. Rodney had expected the sparse furnishings, the computer, and the filing cabinets. What he hadn't expected was the wide desk, piled with fabric and tile samples, and the design board set up in the middle of it.

What would a furniture supplier need with a design board?

With a sinking feeling he crossed the room to the desk. The board was much like his, snapshots of the room at the top, bits and pieces of fabric, paper, stripes of paint, pictures of furniture. The colours were deep, rich plum, black brocade that shimmered with purple iridescence, a little square of deep grey slate. It all looked very... gothic. And _familiar_. He'd _seen_ that room in the photos.

Rodney knew it, even as he found the words squeezed onto a bit of blank space.

_Living Room design for L Cadman. John Sheppard Designs._

That _bastard_.

"Rodney? Where'd you get to?" Brendan's, no, _Sheppard's_ voice called from the hallway. "Did you get lost? Thought I had the bad sense of direction-oh."

Rodney looked up from the board to see Sheppard standing in the doorway.

"Is this some kind of a joke to you?" He said, indicating the board and the office with a sweep of his arm

"Listen Rodney I-"

"No! You listen! You lied to me! For weeks! Did you think I was stupid? How could you? Was this all some elaborate attempt to find out more about Athos? Oh God," he sank into the desk chair- black, just like the living room furniture, and what with all the black the man wore he really should have guessed sooner. "That's it isn't it? It was all a plot to steal our clients! Honey traps are a little extreme don't you think Sheppard? The lack of taste in this town means you'll never be short of jobs."

"No!" Sheppard said, pleadingly, "that wasn't it at all, believe me-"

"Believe you?" Rodney yelled. "Why the fuck should I believe you? You've been lying to me for _weeks_!"

Everything, everything had been a lie. The look in Brendan's eyes as he leaned in for a kiss. His throaty gasps and chuckles. The feeling of comfort and safety he'd felt with him. He was half-in love with a man that didn't exist.

"Only about this!" Sheppard said desperately. "Everything else was true!"

 

"Like hell it was," Rodney scoffed. He pushed past Sheppard and out into the hall. "Don't even _think_ about calling me," he said, as he hauled the front door open and slammed it behind him, Sheppard's protestations ringing in his ears.

* * *

Ring ring

"Rodney-"

_Click._

Ring ring

"Listen R-"

_Click_

Ring ring

"I'm sor-"

_Click_

Rodney sighed and took the phone off the hook. Ten seconds later his cellphone buzzed. He hit cancel, then spend a few seconds blocking Sheppard's number. He settled back onto the sofa, and pulled the warm fluffy afghan from Athos's 2006 collection round his shoulders. He couldn't believe he had been so stupid, so blinded by Sheppard's stupid hair and slinky hips and frustratingly sweet kisses to ignore all the blatant holes in the man's story.

The phone buzzed again, and Rodney checked the screen before answering.

"Rodney, are you feeling well?" Teyla asked.

"I'm wallowing," Rodney said. "I'm taking the day off." His head was pounding from the whiskey he'd had last night, and the fractious night's sleep he'd had.

"Is this connected to the muffin basket from John Sheppard we've just had delivered?" she asked slowly.

Rodney groaned, and started to tell her the whole story.

* * *

The atmosphere at the office the next few days was sombre. Amelia had just looked at him, hugged him, and phoned her boyfriend for emergency coffee cake. He was a good sort, Rodney thought. She should keep him. Teyla didn't say anything at all when he completely lost his temper with three suppliers, or when he just sat, tight lipped, as a client raved about Sheppard's 'moderne-goth' style.

Sheppard kept trying to contact him. He didn't ring him at home any more, but Rodney heard Amelia give him a piece of her mind on the phone a few times, and the door man got quite annoyed at Rodney's constant refusal to see 'the gentleman that's waiting in the lobby'. The muffin basket was followed by a fruit basket (citrus free, so at least Sheppard had listened to him) and then a fruit _and_ muffin basket. Rodney sent them all back, unopened.

Amelia was explaining, yet again, the no, Rodney was not taking any calls, when Teyla narrowed her eyes, and made a gesture for Amelia to hand over the phone.

"Mr Sheppard? Teyla Emmagen. Rodney does _not_ wish to speak to you. And, frankly, I would stop him if he did. I do not take kindly to people hurting my friends. Believe me, Mr Sheppard, this is not helping. The police? They will be the least of your worries."

She put the phone down with a final-sounding click.

"He will not be bothering us again," she said simply.

"I still can't believe I was so stupid," Rodney said. Stupid and blind and stupid.

"The heart blinds us to many things," Teyla said, rubbing her hand soothingly over his shoulder blades.

* * *

"And then his partner said the police would be the last of my worries," John finished. Teyla had sounded deadly serious, and he didn't want to think too closely about it.

"I don't know how you expected this to go well," Ronon said unsympathetically. He put his feet on the coffee table, and John didn't even have the heart to tell him not to.

"I didn't. I just didn't expect it to go this badly," he said. "I was going to tell him everything, and ask for another chance. I just want to talk to him again."

When Rodney had pushed past him it felt like the bottom had dropped out of his world. He knew it was his own fault, but that didn't stop the feeling that he'd lost something that could have been really good.

"I told you it was a bad idea," Ronon said, taking a pull of his beer. "But, these last few weeks? You've been the happiest I've seen you since your discharge."

John couldn't deny that. It wasn't just the physical contact he had with Rodney, but the way that he felt he was fitting in here, making a home, and Rodney was a big part of that.

"I just need to talk to him, face to face, and try and make him understand. But he won't take my calls."

Ronon looked at him, then said.

"You're going about this the wrong way."

"What do you mean?" John asked, confused.

"You have a home. He decorates them. He'd have to speak to you, to find out what you want."

"Ronon, you're a genius," John said, already reaching for the phone.

"I'm just sick of you moping," Ronon replied.

* * *

Rodney had spent the weekend alternately moping and working himself up into righteous fits of anger. Daniel had rung Sunday morning, (he just knew Teyla had called him) and they had had an immensely satisfying time working out more and more elaborate ways to make John Sheppard suffer. He'd had a hard time Sunday evening, when, watching the latest tivo'd episode of _Eureka_ he'd picked up the phone to call Brendan about a particularly ridiculous plot point, only to remember that Brendan didn't really exist.

_Probably doesn't even like the show_, Rodney thought angrily.

Monday morning he gave himself a stern talking to, and went into work determined to completely forget about John Sheppard, no matter how hot his kisses, or how good his company.

That lasted until just after lunch, when Teyla put the phone down, then turned to him with a mixture of annoyance and concern on her face.

"That was John Sheppard," she said.

"Sheppard?" Rodney asked, trying to ignore the little flutter, half of anger, half of something else, in his belly. "I thought I'd finally got him convinced that I _didn't_ want to talk to him."

"He wanted to hire us," Teyla said.

"Hire us?" Rodney repeated, stunned. "He's a designer himself, why would he need us?"

"I do not know. I said no, of course. I am booked up to do the Caldwell refit, and there is no way I would ask you."

"I assure you, I am _perfectly_ fine," Rodney lied. "In fact," he continued, "I don't know what I ever saw in the man."

"Rodney." Teyla, said, just glaring at him.

"Look," Rodney said. "He's willing to pay us, right? And we need the money. Given that he's the reason we lost clients this month, I think it's kind of poetic that he helps us out."

"If you're sure," Teyla said doubtfully.

"I'm sure," Rodney said, already forming a plan.

* * *

"So, I thought that you could start on the living room," John said, "That way I can still work in my office without getting in your way."

He tried a smile. Rodney looked just as good as ever, the smouldering anger in his blue eyes more of a turn on than it probably should be, black shirtsleeves rolled up to set off his biceps, the crooked mouth John could remember every inch of turned down in a frown. He itched to reach out and touch him, but he didn't have the right to, and he knew it was all his fault.

"Mr Sheppard-"

"John-"

"Mr _Sheppard_. I'm afraid that you being in the apartment is out of the question. You'll need to find somewhere else to stay."

"I was hoping we could, y'know, talk. While you were working." John said, trying to hide his disappointment.

"Everything's an angle with you, isn't it Sheppard?" Rodney said hotly.

"No! No angle, I just," John felt his shoulders sag in frustration. "I just wanted to talk to you. Try and make you understand."

"Thank you, but the fact that I was _lied to_ by the man that I-" Rodney shook his head, clearly not wanting to finish the sentence. "That's fairly easy to understand. Now, did you have any design pointers? Coffins maybe? Black walls? Purple floors? That's about your style isn't it?" he gave a bitter little chuckle.

John sighed. This had been a really bad idea.

"Just, do what you feel is best. Make it somewhere you'd want to spend time."

"Very well," Rodney said. He made a note on his pad. "We can spare you a week starting next Wednesday. Amelia will call you with the details.

John winced. Amelia had a creative and extensive vocabulary of swear words, and had used them all on him in the past week.

"OK," he said, getting up.

"Rodney? I really am sorry. More than you know. I'd do anything to make it up to you."

He waited a few seconds, but there was no reply.

* * *

"Right," Rodney said, striding out into the reception area, "Amelia, I need you to contact these people and arrange warehouse visits for me." He handed her the list he'd scribbled down.

"Todd's Tinsel Town Treasures?" Amelia read out, sounding incredulous, "Kavanagh and Lee? Rodney, we never use these people, their stuff is terrible!"

"Just contact them," Rodney said, trying to decide between orange and chartreuse for the living room.

"Seriously, are you OK?" Amelia reached forward to feel his forehead and he batted her hand away.

"I'm fine. This is for the Sheppard living room."

"Oh!" realisation broke out over her face. "Well, in that case, did you know that Koyla and Cowen make repro naugahyde sofas?"

Rodney grinned,

 

"Perfect."

 

"Rodney, revenge is not a healthy way of dealing with this," Teyla said reproachfully. "If this has our name attached to it, it could damage the company."

"He told me to do whatever I want," Rodney said determinedly. "I suddenly really want to channel the 1970s."

Seeing Sheppard again had thrown him slightly, the smile, the spiky hair, the way he said his name. Brendan had said his name like that. And when he had apologised, voice low, defeated, it had been exactly the same as when he had told Rodney about leaving the Air Force. It had been all Rodney could do to not accept the apology, just to get that look of his face. He took a breath and worked up his anger again. Sheppard was probably acting. He was good at that, after all.

* * *

Sheppard had dropped the keys off to Amelia, and Rodney told himself he was pleased that he had kept his word, and was nowhere to be seen. He'd wanted Sheppard to leave him alone, and it was stupid to think he might had still tried to speak to him. Even though the kitchen was stocked with his favourite roast, a new coffee mug set out next to the machine.

"OK," Rodney said to the movers. "Markham, Stackhouse, we need to get the furniture out before Vega and Ford come to do the walls."

He had thought to just have them take the lot to Goodwill, but the coffee table was actually a really nice piece.

"Goodwill?" Stackhouse asked.

"The bookcases, and the chesterfield and armchair," Rodney said.

"What about the coffee table?"

"Hmm," Rodney went back into the hall and opened the door that had to, by a process of elimination, be Sheppard's bedroom. Again, it was not what he would have expected given the man's designs. The walls were a restful dusty blue-grey, the bed was wide and low, and the wardrobes and nightstand were solid Shaker pieces in pale maple. On the mantel were a few pictures, two boys in short trousers, one with a headfull of black cowlicks. A much younger Sheppard in riding clothes, arm around the neck of a big bay horse. Sheppard, in uniform but otherwise looking much as he did now, smiling and laughing with a man in a wheelchair.

_Holland_, Rodney's memory supplied.

He wasn't lying about that.

"McKay?" Stackhouse called.

"In here. Put the table in here," Rodney said, collecting his thoughts.

* * *

He helped Vega and Ford put the first layer of undercoat, getting covered with white paint splatters as he did so.

"Orange? Really, McKay?" Vega asked as she touched the wall gingerly to see if it was dry.

"Really," he said.

Ford pulled a face as he prised off the lid of the can of orange paint.

"That's, really bright." he said, a little stunned.

Vega looked over his shoulder.

"Dusty mixed it specially," she said. "We'll need another layer of undercoat. The mink's still showing through."

"Really, really orange?" Ford said. "With the wallpaper for the feature wall?"

Rodney just glared at him, and he picked up the roller again.

***

When he came back the next day to supervise the carpet fitters laying the turquoise and brown zigzag axminster he _almost_ felt sorry for Sheppard. Vega and Ford had painted and papered the room, and the orange was almost migraine-inducing. Vega had told her girlfriend the whole story, and Dusty had outdone herself. The walls, except for one, were the colour of Kool-Aid. The printed wallpaper clashed hideously, just as he had intended.

"You gonna move out the way?" Ladon asked.

Rodney bit his tongue, remembering why he and Teyla never dealt with Genii Floorings if they could help it.

"Just lay the damn carpet," he said, and retreated to Sheppard's office, where Todd had dropped off all the lighting and accessories. He was particularly pleased with the pineapple pendant light. He unpacked the boxes, and then, as he could still hear the tap tap of carpet being tacked in place, sat at Sheppard's desk and spun round in the chair a few times. Sheppard had taken his design board, clearly still intending to inflict his murky palettes on whatever clients he'd pinched off of Athos, but there was a portfolio on the desk, as well as a pile of sample and colour cards that made the desk look much like his own.

Feeling no remorse whatsoever, Rodney sifted through the portfolio.

A restaurant, with interesting steel-grey flooring and block-printed walls, tables and bamboo screens arranged to give a feeling of intimacy in the large room.

A living room, opening out to a garden with french windows, delicate green walls and sheer linen drapes creating a seamless flow from inside to outside.

A child's playroom, with careful notes about non-toxic everything, sturdy furniture, and wipe-clean walls.

Now this was closer to what he expected- a plan for a small room, which would be made smaller by deep forest green walls and bronze drapes. The colours were completely wrong, and the room would be stifling to spend any amount of time in. But, paper-clipped behind it was another one, the colours much lighter, the deep green reduced to accents of skirting board and throw rugs, the drapes still bronze, but semi-sheer, letting in more light. The client's signature showed they'd chosen that one. The right one.

He could actually design.

Nothing that Rodney would design himself, the colours were still more vivid than he usually preferred, but he was _good_.

Suddenly Rodney wished they were still speaking. He wanted to discuss the plans, to argue that he should have gone for varnished boards in the playroom (easier to clean than carpet), to ask where Sheppard sourced the block print from.

He wanted.

* * *

Once the furniture was in place (the young blonde furniture mover goggling slightly at the combination of walls, carpet and the chartreuse naugahyde Rodney had chosen for the armchair and sofa) Rodney started putting the finishing touches to the room. He always preferred music when he was working, so he hit the on button on Sheppard's sleek black Bose system, and did a double take when country music filled the room.

_"Seriously Brendan? Johnny Cash?"_

"Hey, the guy's an artist. Don't think I didn't see that Celine Dion CD in your office."

"She's a Canadian institution, and don't change the subject."

They'd ended up having a 15 minute discussion on the finer points of Johnny Cash vs Neil Young. As Cash's scratchy voice filled the room Rodney wondered what else Sheppard had been telling the truth about.

He pushed those thoughts to one side, and concentrated on installing lighting, fluffing up pillows, and arranging the collection of vintage Vegas-themed bar equipment on the mantel and window ledges. The coffee table was back in position, unaltered, but Rodney had added a crocheted runner with a pattern of cherries and coconuts, as well as a red and black ceramic vase complete with a bunch of pink plastic daises. He hung framed Abba albums on the wall in a 3 x 3 grid, and, as the finishing touch, added a plastic bead and bell curtain in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen.

Eventually he stood back and took a sip of coffee from the Doctor Who mug as he surveyed his handiwork.

It was hideous. Absolutely hideous. Sheppard would hate it. Hate it enough to never even try to see him again.

He told himself he should feel happier at that.

* * *

Sheppard met him the next morning to get the keys back, and they took the elevator up together.

"Rodney," Sheppard said, as they got to the front door. He put his palm flat on Rodney's forearm, and Rodney forgot to shrug it off.

"Look," Sheppard said. "I know you don't want to hear it, but I really am sorry. I should never have lied to you."

"Why did you?" Rodney asked curiously. His first thought, that it had been to steal clients, no longer seemed right. From what he had seen of the portfolio, Sheppard had no need to.

"I, I wanted you to talk to me."

"What?" Rodney asked, honestly confused.

"At the launch. When you were talking to Ellis. I was about to introduce myself and then you-"

"Said something about your designs," Rodney said, remembering. It had only been a few weeks ago, but it seemed like a different world. "So, you thought the best thing to do was to lie to me? For three weeks?"

"I never meant it to get that far," Sheppard said, looking rueful, "and I tried to tell you, but-" he broke off. "Look, can we go inside?" he gestured to the door. " I don't really want to have conversations about what an idiot I am in the hallway.

"Sure," Rodney said, suppressing a smile.

Sheppard unlocked the front door, and Rodney followed him inside.

"I was looking forward to seeing what you've done with the place," Sheppard said as he put his hand on the living room door handle. "I really like your work, Rodney. I wasn't lying about that either."

"Well," Rodney said, "this was a bit of a departure for me."

Sheppard swung the door open.

He stopped and stared for a long ten seconds, taking in the orange walls, the feature wall patterned with pink flamingos and green palm trees, the art on the walls, the kitsch knick knacks, the furniture, the zigzag carpeting, and the ugly yellow glow cast by the pineapple lampshades.

Sheppard blinked three times.

"Rodney!" he growled, "what the fuck? What have you done to my living room?"

"Decorated it," Rodney said. Sheppard had a murderous look on his face as he took in all the changes.

"What did you do with my armchair?"

"Got rid of it," Rodney said primly. "It didn't fit with my vision." He had to stifle a laugh.

"Your _vision_?" Sheppard said, advancing on him. "What vision was that? You've destroyed my living room! Is this your idea of revenge?"

"You _lied_ to me! For weeks!" Rodney said, slightly scared. He didn't _think_ Sheppard would hit him, but then again, he didn't really know Sheppard, did he?

Sheppard suddenly sprawled into the armchair, tossing the throw pillows out of the way. One hit the mantel, and the Elvis toothpick holder fell to the floor.

"Fine." he said, "I guess I maybe deserve it. But you have to believe me, Rodney, I was going to tell you. But the longer it went on, the harder it got."

Rodney frowned at him

"Pardon me if I don't believe you," he said stubbornly.

"Look- just, will you let me explain?" Sheppard said.

Rodney leaned against the mantel and crossed his arms.

"Fine," he said. "Talk."

"I wasn't trying to steal your clients. I have my own, enough to be going on with. I just wanted to talk to you- you were easily the most interesting person at that launch.

Rodney felt oddly flattered. It had been a bit of a boring night, and 'Brendan' had definitely brightened it up. But, still

"And that involved pretending to be someone else? You couldn't just introduce yourself?"

"I was going to! But every time I got near you you were ripping my name to shreds! Do you really hate my designs that much?"

Rodney flicked through the portfolio in his mind

"Some of them have merit," he admitted.

"So pleased you think so," Sheppard drawled. "And, I don't know, it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"So wait, if you weren't spying on us, what's with the whole mysterious reclusive thing? Why didn't you talk about yourself in that interview?"

"You've seen where I work- I'm just starting up, so I can't afford an office. And I'm not going to bring clients here, especially not now!" Sheppard gestured around the room and glared. "So my assistant works from home. And," he said wearily, "the reason I didn't is because I didn't think anyone would want to hear- I can't talk about design degrees and apprenticeships. I was in the Air Force! It's not exactly what people want to hear from the guy who's designing their bathroom."

"Oh please," Rodney scoffed, "I was an engineer and I'm still the best designer in this city." The he processed the rest of the sentence, and put it together with the photograph. "Wait, you _were_ in the Air Force? That was all true?"

Sheppard nodded.

"OK, so, you, quite flatteringly I must admit, invented an alter ego to talk to me- clearly I have that much of a magnetic personality, but what about afterwards? Why keep lying to me?"

"I tried to tell you, I really did, but, I kind of, forgot you didn't know."

Sheppard shrugged a little helplessly.

"How could you _forget_?" Rodney asked.

"Because everything we did, that was me! The only difference was my name! And then, at your place, when you called me 'Brendan',"

The pieces slotted together.

"You _didn't_ have a call! I thought you were bored or cheating on me, but-"

"Hey," Sheppard's smile was twisted. "I'm an asshole, but I'm not enough of one to sleep with you while you thought I was someone else. It was the quickest excuse I could come up with."

"So, when you invited me round- you were going to tell me then?" Rodney said, trying to get it all straight. He was moving from pissed, to slightly bewildered.

"Yeah, but we know how well that worked out," Sheppard said ruefully.

Rodney huffed, halfway between a snort and a laugh.

"Look," Sheppard leaned forward, "I lied to you. It was stupid, juvenile, and I'm sorry. I don't really expect you to forgive me. But, you have to believe me, the ONLY thing I lied about was my name, and parts of my job. Everything else, _everything_, was the truth."

"Everything? Really?" Rodney asked.

"Everything. Holland, the Air Force, my parents. That I like turkey and hate tuna. The way; the way I feel about you." he finished, voice dropping to a whisper.

"And how do you feel about me?"Rodney asked, almost as quietly, like he didn't want to break the spell.

"I paid you to destroy my living room just so I could talk to you. That tell you how I feel?"

"I didn't destroy it," Rodney said, bristling, though he felt a flutter of pleasure at Sheppard's apparent sincerity. "You said I could do what I liked."

"Actually, I said to make it somewhere you wanted to spend time," Sheppard corrected.

"And what makes you think this isn't it?" Rodney said. Teasing him, he was teasing and flirting he knew, but he was kind of really pleased to see Sheppard again, despite everything.

Sheppard picked up the toothpick holder that the cushion had dislodged and brandished it at him, raising an eyebrow.

"I'll have you know that is a, a, stunning example of a much-maligned design genre. The bright colours, and the iconography is reminiscent of-" Rodney couldn't keep it up, and he burst our laughing at the look of horror on Sheppard's face.

 

"OK, it's hideous," he admitted.

"Seriously Rodney, flamingos?" Sheppard said, but he was laughing too.

"You're lucky I didn't go with weeping clowns," Rodney chuckled.

Sheppard shuddered.

"I guess I would have deserved it," he said.

"I'm not sure anyone deserves that," Rodney said. He took the toothpick holder off Sheppard and set it back on the mantel, fingers brushing over John's as he did so.

"Hey," John said soberly. "Do you think we could maybe start over again? I think we'd be good together."

Rodney looked at him,

"I don't know," he said slowly. "I mean, it's not like I really know John Sheppard.

John held out his hand.

"Hi. I'm John Sheppard. I like Ferris wheels, college football, and things that go over 200 miles an hour." He grinned.

Rodney groaned.

"Is everything a line with you, Sheppard?"

John got up out of the chair and prowled up to him, stepping right up close, just like that first night by the subway station.

"Hey," John said, voice soft and husky. "I'm John Sheppard. I'm a designer, I'm an idiot, and I like - you, Rodney."

Rodney, despite himself, smiled.

"It's a start."

John closed the gap between them, and Rodney let him. John kissed the same as Brendan, tasted and smelled and felt the same, and maybe that was a start.

"Just one thing," Rodney said, pulling back and smiling. "No way are we ever having sex here while those walls are orange."

"That's reasonable," John grinned.

**Epilogue: One Month Later**

"John, you close?" Rodney panted in his ear as his hips snapped forward, powering into him with all the strength in those solid thighs.

"Nghhhh," John managed, seeing stars as Rodney brushed over this prostate again and again. "Y, yeah."

Rodney's hand sped up, jerking rough and perfect, and that was it, John came, spilling on Rodney's blue cotton sheets, feeling Rodney's lips on the back of his neck. He was still floating when he felt Rodney stiffen, then groan softly, coming as well.

They lay, panting for a while, then Rodney kissed the back of his neck again and pulled out slowly. John heard the plop of the condom hitting the wastebasket, and then Rodney was back. He wiped him off with the corner of the bed sheet.

"Mmm," John said happily as Rodney got back into bed and leaned over to kiss him. He couldn't believe that he'd been so stupid as to risk not knowing this.

"Next time we're doing this at your place. I've seen that bed," Rodney said, snuggling up to him.

"Not while the flamingoe are there," John said again. "They _look_ at me." He still hadn't had time to change the paper. Ronon had taken one look at it and suggested he charge admission.

Rodney snorted, and leaned over him to pick something off the table. John took the opportunity to swipe his tongue over one of Rodney's nipples.

"I got something for you," he said, and handed him a polaroid. "One of my clients is having a total refit, and she had this. I told her to take the price of it off the bill, but she just gave it me. Said she'd always hated it, but her ex-husband wouldn't let her get rid of it."

It was a Modernist armchair. Shabby, but exactly what he'd been looking for, down to the fabric.

"Hoff can do repro fabric. They'll recover it for you." Rodney continued. "I thought we could put it in your living room. Once we redecorate it."

"We gonna redecorate it?" John asked, still looking at the picture.

"Well, I thought, I'd like to actually be able to sleep with my partner at his own house," Rodney said grinning down at him. "Those flamingos freak me out too."

"I love you, Rodney," John grinned, pulling him back down and covering them both with Rodney's absurdly fluffy comforter.

And it was nothing but the truth.


End file.
